There were different looks, different expressions in those faces.
Aritomo recognized reverence, he enjoyed boundless respect. He saw gratitude, even worship. Aritomo read the willingness to believe and follow, he discerned a collective awareness that something out of the ordinary had happened, something with a divine purpose. Proof had been given to them, the proof that Yax Mutal was indeed chosen, that they were all among the elevated few, and that with the messengers of the gods at their side, nothing would be impossible.
What did they possibly mean with “by their side”? Why “at their side”? He saw the willingness to follow and obey, a form of loyalty that clearly bordered on worship.
Inugami certainly noticed it too.
His confident smile, complacent, with that slightly cruel expression in the corner of his mouth as he looked at the tattered bodies of the warriors of Yaxchilan, spoke volumes. Everything had happened as he had planned. The desired effect had been triggered.
The Maya would eat from their hands. They were now led by a former prince who had been known to never spurn young girls and drink, and who had never been struck by any particular ambition. A man who would stand in the shadow – in the shadow of an extraordinary victory, for which he wasn’t responsible as a king, but had to be attributed directly to the miraculous, mighty work of the holy messengers.
The work, the decisions and the power of their leader Inugami.
The effects of the battle were horrible to behold. Aritomo had been trained in iron discipline, but here he was confronted, for the first time in his life, with a massacre in which he himself had no insignificant share. The Mayan warriors worked with dumb earnestness, neither shocked nor appalled. There was an almost happy mood when the bodies were taken away. If someone recognized a nobleman from one of the three enemy cities, even occasional jubilation erupted. Aritomo couldn’t share that attitude. He saw the remnants of those men who had stood in the center of the explosions. They looked the worst. Then came those who were hit by shrapnel, with sometimes horrific injuries. And finally all those killed by the spears of the atlatl or the volleys of the gunmen. Their death had been almost merciful compared to the fate of her comrades. Enough of the enemies had died in the onset of panic, trampled to death, or when they had run into the spears of the suddenly not so fickle or cowardly warriors of Mutal. They didn’t have a clear overview, but Aritomo would be very surprised if more than 500 men had fallen on the side of the defenders. The corpses that they gathered here, however, clearly went into the four-digit. And out of the streets and along the escape route of the panicked runners, the enraged citizens must have inflicted even more deaths, and they were still hunted down by the men of Mutal.
It was important to find all the bodies. The city and the districts were criss-crossed by canals and water reservoirs. The Maya may had no idea about bacteria and infections, but they were a warlike people and had to realize that corpses would contaminate the precious wet. This would, if not properly cleaned up, lead to a late triumph of the late Tatb’u, and nobody was interested in that. So they started collecting the dead bodies, as quickly as possible, and the focus was first on cleaning the water. Half-naked warriors waded through the reservoirs and canals, collecting corpses. The water hadn’t made the deceased more attractive. The burning sun and the midday heat made things worse. Chitam had ordered to set up big fires. In the evening, all fallen fighters should burn, those of the enemy in a non-ceremonial and despised manner, their own dead with the blessing of the gods and under the complaints of their loved ones in a special place. Already for the next day great services were announced, in which, as Aritomo suspected, the preparations for the second, bloody act of this war would be made. He knew that human sacrifices were not foreign to the Maya; they were even considered an important part of religion, though not part of daily practice, just a necessary ingredient to make the gods merciful. And prisoners of war, especially those of such high status, were particularly well suited as donations. There would be no slaughter of hundreds of prisoners. The Maya’s practice wasn’t about conscious cruelty or the incarnation of a special sense of hate. It was about spiritual needs, at least from their point of view.
Inugami and Aritomo agreed to reject this practice, albeit for different reasons. The Captain had announced his intention of talking to Chitam about it, and the fact that they made this trek through the mounds of corpses was connected, not least, with the discussion of this subject. Only the most necessary sacrifices should be allowed, only very few of their opponents should be killed. Inugami had a different use for the prisoners.
Sawada accompanied them, his face frozen into a motionless mask. The old scholar wasn’t a soldier, never been one. He knew his books and his studies. For him, this sight was even harder to endure than for Aritomo, who was always confronted with this prospect as a soldier, and had prepared himself to a certain degree. But the man fared remarkably well. Still, the fixed gaze, with which he regarded only the way ahead, spoke volumes. Aritomo couldn’t blame him. He would have gladly spared himself that sight, but Inugami repeatedly pointed to this or that – to the effects of the shelling, to the work of the artisans who had immediately begun to repair buildings, to some particularly maimed victims – that Aritomo couldn’t afford to just look away like Sawada.
He had to glance at everything, accept Inugami’s comments, answer questions, give assessments. It took a lot of effort to do all this. He mastered himself well, at least he assumed so, but eventually his lack of passion for slaughter would strike the Captain – if not in this battle, then possibly the next. Aritomo would have to consider this. Was the soldier’s profession perhaps the wrong choice for him? He had never expected to be attacked by such scruples.
The Captain didn’t seem to recognize Aritomo’s problems, or he simply didn’t care. The way he looked at the dead was more than arrogant. It was as if he didn’t see the mortal remains of humans in all the casualties, but rather of animals that had just been led to slaughter. His remarks were of technical coldness, of effectiveness and efficiency, of the use of existing resources, analyzed tactical errors of enemies and allies alike.
What Inugami said wasn’t stupid, and that made things even worse. Aritomo felt that his superior had adapted surprisingly quickly and had an alert mind. He was able to assess the Maya’s military capabilities – he even praised the atlatl’s accuracy and impact – and he had some pretty good insights into their tactical usability. But at the same time, it was as if he was talking about tokens, not real fighters who fought real battles, and in these, as they had just shown, died a very real death.
Inugami went away with a nonchalance that Aritomo couldn’t understand. If Mutal was the place to spend the rest of their life – and Aritomo lost hope of a return to their own time with each passing day –, then it was necessary, not only helpful, to build a relationship with the Maya, which clearly went beyond their use as human material for military missions.
Inugami saw it differently.
Aritomo had known that, of course. But this walk across the field of death showed it once more in all clearness. It robbed him of every illusion. Everything was now clearly spread out before him, and he saw his role in all this. As a faithful paladin of a grandiose warlord, a ruler who just wouldn’t bear the name of a king because a young prince was well suited to act as a puppet in front of him.
Or was he?
Aritomo was almost glad once they reached the palace. Everywhere were traces of the fight. Desperate invaders had hitherto been entrenched in the narrow spaces, and it had been particularly difficult to defeat them. The men of Tatb’u had endured to the bitter end, and none of them had been led into captivity. The bodies had already been carried out, and the worst devastation had been eliminated, yet there was still much to do. The metallic scent of blood hung in the air, and the reddish-brown spots were everywhere.
They were led by a servant into a room that was slightly larger than the other
s and looked like the King’s private rooms. Here they found Chitam, along with the priest Itzanami. The new King of Mutal also wanted to make sure that all those who could best communicate with each other were present. In addition to them, other men were present Aritomo couldn’t quite remember. However, from their posturing and clothing, he concluded that there were high noblemen, clan leaders, men Chitam had to rely on to establish his rule – or who had insisted on attending that gathering, just because the prince was not yet comfortable on his throne and the opportunity was favorable to steer him in the right direction.
Wherever they would point to.
Aritomo felt uncomfortable, despite all the accentuated friendliness, the food, the relaxed posture of everyone involved. He kept glancing sideways at his commander, who regarded Chitam with condescension, just like the dead on the way here.
That couldn’t be good.
It was too difficult. They all tried, tried their best, and especially Sawada and Itzanami struggled, but in the first few minutes Aritomo realized that they were in for a very tedious conversation.
They lacked words, grammar and possibly patience.
They complimented each other on this victory, but these utterances seemed like a formality that both sides expected in some way, but which wasn’t meant seriously, because they knew it would lead to consequences. And what those were would ultimately decide if they would be satisfied with this triumph.
Inugami had a better grip on this than Aritomo had expected.
Chitam showed more royal dignity than ever in his life.
Sawada and Itzanami were focused and attentive, and worked hard to find the right words. They failed more than once. Everyone groped their way to the core of the statements. It was like circling a military target and then attacking it from different locations, hoping that one of those moves would eventually produce the desired result. Aritomo felt that both sides were painfully aware of the danger of major misunderstandings and did everything they could to reach a common understanding of what they were talking about.
It was still very tedious.
And it dragged on, very tiring, because utmost care meant that many things were repeated several times to ensure that everything was well understood. Chitam’s face had remained an iron mask throughout the encounter, but Aritomo had the impression that the King’s mood was constantly worsening. He couldn’t blame him. Inugami had come up with demands made with cold courtesy, insisting, and he wiped away all objections.
This approach couldn’t make anyone happy except himself.
In the end – after a good two hours – they hadn’t progressed too far. After all, Inugami had managed to get his message across, and it was one in which Aritomo had unconditionally supported him: The prisoners of war from the three hostile cities shouldn’t be sacrificed in bloody rituals. Instead, they should be the basis for a new, even greater army of Mutal, an army of slaves who could earn fame and rank, and good treatment through special bravery in battle. Aritomo knew where Inugami got this idea. At the Military Academy he had chosen a historical subject for his thesis, a work that was highly valued and formally imposed upon his first officer for reading. The subject had been the Janissaries, the elite troop of the Ottoman Empire, a military unit made up of slaves, who paid for their special privileges, which they enjoyed despite their status, with extraordinary bravery and great fighting spirit. This was the concept that inspired Inugami, and he did everything to make it understandable to Chitam.
Aritomo knew what ulterior motives Inugami had. The Captain would like to take care of the training and organization of this troop. He wanted to form a force that didn’t feel loyalty primarily to the King of Mutal but to himself. And he wanted to lay the foundation for the imperial plans that had driven him since their arrival in this time.
When they left the palace two hours later and set out on their way back, the Captain had achieved a great deal. Chitam’s position had been weak. His counselors had wanted to fulfill every wish of Inugami. They saw in the leader of the holy messengers a kind of savior, a representative of higher powers, who would lead the city to an unprecedented position. Chitam couldn’t argue against the public mood after this great victory, Aritomo had noticed. He had tried to fight a rearguard action, and not without skill. But in the end he had to agree reluctantly to the proposals, especially when the priests had agreed to rethink the ancient rituals in the face of this heavenly sign and possibly … adapt.
The prospect of power and wealth, the smell of an empire under construction – all this produced an astounding amount of flexibility even in some narrow-minded man. Or, Aritomo mused, maybe it was simply to exchange one kind of bigotry for another.
During their discussion with Chitam, cleanup operations were intensified. The night was coming soon, and it was necessary to have at least most of the dead recovered. A smell of roasted flesh hung over the city, and Aritomo knew that this had nothing to do with a feast in honor of her victory but with the burning of corpses in full swing. The columns of smoke, which stood high in several places in the almost calm air, spoke volumes.
Along the road across the square to the submarine, there were no more dead lying. Only the craters far away from the boat were still clearly visible, wherever the cannon’s fire had ripped open the floor or damaged buildings. Again, the Maya would go to work quickly. Their skills as master builders were impressive, even if Inugami was willing to express this positive assessment only sparingly.
“I’m very happy, Second Lieutenant Hara,” Inugami said after leaving the palace behind. “You speak the language of these savages already very well. I’m sure the new chief will realize that our call for an end to useless human sacrifice makes great sense.”
Aritomo tried a smile to show that he appreciated the praise.
“The … King agreed,” he said. “He wasn’t the deciding factor personally. The priesthood is of great importance. We must now use the exuberance of our victory and the demonstration of our power to break up certain old structures. The reduction of human sacrifice is certainly one important task.”
“Yes, yes,” Inugami nodded. “Let’s keep an eye on the priests. As long as they submit, we want to leave them alone. Whether they stop their silly rituals or spill their own blood on their altars, I’m content. But we can’t allow these prisoners to be slaughtered. The men are devastated and demoralized. We will set them up, build them up, give them a new perspective, new opportunities, and respect. We will shape them, Hara, like clay in the hand of the artist. They will be very grateful to receive this second chance and be ready to fight for us with all their hearts.”
Aritomo said nothing. He couldn’t argue with Inugami – the likelihood that his plan would come to pass wasn’t so small –, and he didn’t want to start a discussion about what it would mean to “fight for us.” An army wasn’t created to make pointless parades, and Inugami was pragmatic. An army was created to use it.
“In the medium term, we need to think about what we can do with this Chitam,” Inugami said, tearing him out of his thoughts. “I had the impression he wasn’t half as enthusiastic as the others of his entourage.”
Aritomo nodded. Inugami had a good ability of observation when he considered it worthwhile to use it. Of course, every waking eye had noticed in the past two hours that Chitam knew very well where the journey was going and that he was in danger of becoming King of Inugami’s graces. Of course, he didn’t like that prospect much.
“What do you mean exactly?” Aritomo asked, though he thought he knew pretty well what the Captain was after.
“We need to get rid of him,” Inugami said with a serenity as if talking about removing a stain on his tunic. “He seems to think of himself as someone who still acts independently. But that time is over soon. We can only have one king, just one symbol of our new power. And that’s Prince Isamu alone. If someone sits on this throne, then it will be him. We must do everything in our power to make this
transition as smooth as possible. You know these people better than I do, Hara. I expect you to make suggestions.”
Inugami did not even wait for his first officer to reply. They were always greeted by working Maya, very respectful, submissive, and Inugami, in a good mood, apparently wanted to appear affable. He returned the greetings, waved, smiled, nodded encouragingly. He staunchly believed that Aritomo would have no trouble developing a way to eliminate Chitam.
But Aritomo Hara pressed his lips on each other. With this order, this clear intention, things headed for a decision – a decision on Mutal’s leadership and the political future, but also a decision on whether Aritomo continued to obey without complaining or whether he was seriously considering how he could shape an alternative approach.
As they came close to the boat, Aritomo remembered his conversation with Prince Isamu. He pictured the boy on the Throne of Mutal, steered, pushed forward, a puppet in the hands of others, especially Inugami’s. That was what the Prince was afraid of, what gave him unquiet nights, and with that he sensed the same doom as Aritomo did. Isamu would have a secure and sheltered life, like all Japanese emperors before him. But Inugami didn’t want a Meiji, the famous emperor who had begun to rule himself and was willing to leave the Imperial Palace. He wanted to be a shogun and govern in the name of the emperor, without having too much regard for his opinion.
Aritomo saw this clearly in front of his eyes.
He saw that this way would only lead through a sea of blood. In order to bring legitimacy to this new form of rule, Inugami had to prove himself in further victories, in quick succession and not too far in the future.
“One more thing, Hara,” Inugami said as they stood at the foot of the pyramid where the boat rested. “These closer cities that have joined this Tatb’u … what were their names? I just can’t handle this monkey language.”
The Emperor's Men 7: Rising Sun Page 16